Between the lines of dead language tongues, before the dawn our hearts they shall hunt. The smell of blood excites the nostrils at first cut. The sanguinary worship of red spraying punctures a sight so divine.

Clutching her carcass, a face frozen in time. A distorted dialect for the draining of veins to the flooding of bedsheets with sick crimson rain. A warped diction of scriptures befouled, traditions steeped within disgraces reviled.